


Canvas

by bluester007



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst, Based on flashback scenes, Gen, Mentions of possible abuse, Tattoo, because it's not really confirmed whether the tattoo was consentual or not, either way i think it still counts as abuse, flagrant use of flame metaphors, ish, pre-canon-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 13:16:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8579992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluester007/pseuds/bluester007
Summary: Short piece looking at Roy's motivations for learning alchemy and his ambitions to make Amestris better, and his reaction to seeing Riza's tattoo for the first time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything in a while, but I figure, hey, the night before a morning Philosophy exam is a better time than any to be motivated to write... right? Right. (Wrong.)  
> Unedited word vomit created by exhausted brain. Un-beta'd.

“Can I trust you, Roy? With my father’s research?”

He’s breathlessly eager, his chest light, bubbling; he feels like an overzealous puppy. This is what he’s been waiting for. All those hours slaving over tome after tome. All the sleepless nights casting shadows under his eyes, the heady weight of exhaustion anchoring his shoulders. All the nicks on his hands, stinging with the bite of chalk dust. The ink stains on his fingers that would take days to fade, trailing black smudges through the house. It’s what he’s been tirelessly studying for, forcing endless circles and sigils spinning through his head. He _knows_ alchemy. He _knows_ he can do it. All he needs is the key, the final piece of the puzzle.

The secrets of Berthold Hawkeye’s research has been his ultimate goal all along. It’s why he’s been training, straining, testing his body and mind: so that he can understand, so that he can take the knowledge, grasp it firmly in his hands, deconstruct and reconstruct it, reshape it as his own. He can use it for good. He can use it to make a difference, to help the citizens of his country. _Be thou for the people_. That’s their maxim, the code of the alchemist. He has the power to serve his fellow countrymen, and that’s exactly what he plans on doing. It’s his responsibility, as an alchemist and as a human being, to do whatever he can, in any way he can, to serve the greater good of his country.

Now, here’s his master’s daughter offering his life’s work on a silver platter, all so Roy can harness the power of the flame. He can practically taste it, the sweet burning of oxygen and nitrogen filtering through the air. He could do _so much_ with this power. He could wreak havoc, bring desolation and carnage the likes of which never seen before. He could turn the world into a blistering pool of ash and cinder. But he won’t, can’t, could never use such raw destructive energy to bring only suffering. He’ll do good. He’ll change lives. He’ll make things _better_ than they are.

She can trust him. He swears on it, on his life, on his honour, on everything he’s worth, however little that may be. She _can_ trust him.

When Roy finally sees it, sees the lifelong work of a madman condensed to a single diagram, he almost doesn’t want it.

They’re standing in his apartment, and she’s watching him, her eyes probing, poking at his creases and caverns. The silence is far too loud, far too heavy, like a thick mess of smog pushing down. He’d been so staggeringly excited, standing in that graveyard – he’d felt anticipation so deep in his bones, an anticipation for _something_ he’d had his whole life, and the answer was, finally, just beyond the horizon. Now, there’s a chill in the air, something bitter and stale clogging up his airways. He feels suddenly weary, as though, for the first time, he’s seeing this girl as a threat, as something to be feared.

She seems to finish her assessment of him, nodding once to herself, before she turns her back to him, walking a little ways further into the center of the room. He watches her, apprehension keeping him rooted in place, as she reaches to undo the buttons of her blouse.

“Riza, what’re you-”

He chokes on his words, falling back a step, as the shirt falls to the floor, and she hugs her arms to her chest, the skin stretching like a canvas across her back. And it _is_ a canvas, a terrible, damnable, magnificent painting sketched on her body in brilliant red, as though she were nothing more than a tool to be used at the whims of a maniac.

_Look after her – my daughter. She’s in possession of my research. Look after her._

“He left it somewhere no one would find it,” she says, and her voice is low, soft, as though she weren’t the walking, breathing, _living_ notes of a man who didn’t deserve half the affection she gave him.

He doesn’t know what to say. There are no words that could make this anything but what it is. And he doesn’t know _what_ it is. He doesn’t know if this was her choice, if she willingly gave her soft, young skin to her father’s brilliance, or if he’d forced on her the burden, the blazing agony, of secret keeper. He’s filled with an inexorable rage, starting deep in his gut, twisting, burning up through his lungs, blistering his throat, waves of heat rolling through his head and raging across his eyes. His pulse skitters, quick and furious, in his eardrums. His mouth burns with the tang of ash, coating his tongue with a thick, slick mass, and for a moment he’s consumed, fuel for the flames of his hate for the man who’d torture his own daughter.

He forces himself to breathe past the rage, to tame the fever to a low simmer. He breathes, steadies himself, collects his wit and takes a step forward.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks – because he has to be certain, has to be confident in her choice. It’s her decision – she holds the key to this power. He won’t force her, no matter how badly he wants this knowledge.

“You said you wanted to make this country a better place,” she says, strong, steady. “Take my father’s research. Use it to make a difference. Otherwise, there’s no point to it.”

He hesitates, only for a moment, before he closes the space between them, standing behind her while she holds her dignity, her strength, together. He takes out a notebook from his coat, holds a pen over a blank page, hovering, waiting for the first stroke to be made.

“Thank you,” he says, before he begins. “For trusting me.”

She says nothing, and after a moment he begins.


End file.
